


Crave the Rose

by aghamora



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Cunnilingus, Extended Scene, F/M, Guilt, Internal Conflict, Mirror Sex, Moral Ambiguity, Pregnant Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 05:34:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12550268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aghamora/pseuds/aghamora
Summary: She’s not a good person. Sure as hell not saint material. She’s never going to be canonized.She might as well get it while she can.Or, the 4x05 sex scene, extended.





	Crave the Rose

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the poem The Narrow Way by Anne Bronte. The full line is 'But he that dares not grasp the thorn / Should never crave the rose,' which is lovely and fits pretty well with this overall.... mess of sex and dubious morality and guilt, and Flaurel/Laurel in general. 
> 
> Enjoy!!

If she thinks too hard about the moral implications of this, she’s sure she’s going to lose it.

Really, though, she’s fooling no one, least of all herself; she chopped up the last few shriveled remains of her morals, doused the things in lighter fluid, and watched them go up in smoke with Sam’s body in the woods that night. Comparatively, on the scale of overall shittiness, she’s done worse things than this.

At least that’s what she’s telling herself. Because she’s all sprawled out in Bonnie’s guest bedroom, clad only in a lacey maroon bralette, panties shucked, hand working between her legs as Frank stands shirtless at the end of the bed watching her – and on the scale of overall shittiness, she’s pretty sure this is about a 14/10. She just can’t bring herself to care.

This whole situation is a Pandora’s Box of dubious morality she’s sure as shit not going to open right now. Because right now-

Frank’s voice intrudes on her hazy reverie. “Gettin’ started without me now?”

“Mmm. I’ll be getting finished without you too,” she breathes, slipping her fingers across her folds and massaging the wetness upward, circling her clit. Her careful lacquer of composure weathers away with each passing second, her body pounding. She swears she has dangerously low levels of rational brain function these days; she’s just one useless, sex-crazed ball of nerve endings, “if you don’t get over here.”

Frank raises his eyebrows, pleasantly surprised by her directness, but she doesn’t mince words, anymore, doesn’t wait or beg or ask permission. She’s all thorns, no wallflower. Her veins seem to have been rewired beneath her skin, pouring blood almost constantly into her lower half; she read, somewhere, about how there’s more blood in your body during pregnancy, increased blood flow, and God, fuck the biology behind it, she just feels fucking engorged, swollen all over and fat and yet somehow, with Frank eyeing her like she’s a four-course meal from across the room, she also feels twistedly, impossibly, ridiculously _hot_.

She’s the Madonna _and_ the whore, these days. She’s decided just to own it.

In a flash, Frank has dropped his pants, crossed the room, and sunk down onto the bed beside her, kissing her deeply, with an open mouth and a discomforting amount of tenderness. She didn’t come here for that; to be loved, adored, worshipped. Venerated, like he seems to want to do. She wants to be debased. Fucked. She wants it all, raw and real and wrong.

They all think she’s some kind of saint, the others. Patron fucking saint of babies and Wes Gibbins and vengeance. But this is who she’s always been, here behind closed doors.

This is who she really is. Greedy. Grasping. Selfish.

_Hungry_.

“You-” he murmurs against her lips, smirking. “You’re fuckin’ insatiable.”

Insatiable, too. Insatiable is a good word for it.

“You complaining?” she slurs, lust-drunk, and he chuckles.

“ _Hell_ no.”

She doesn’t have to give Frank instructions on what to do next, lay out a play-by-play of how this is going to go down; she did at first, a little, after the night in the car, but they’ve fallen into their old rhythm again, old habits. _Bad_ habits. A cigarette craving she can’t kick. Frank is like nicotine and whiskey and sex all rolled up into one blue-eyed, bearded, eager-to-please package and she never had any hope of quitting him cold turkey. She was kidding herself to think she did.

He kisses his way down her body dutifully, pausing at her breasts to pull one out of her bralette and close his lips around the nipple, and she feels her eyes roll back in her head from the resulting surge of pleasure, sizzling like white-hot metal pressed against her skin. Her tits are sensitive, like the rest of her, tender to the touch, painfully so. She could almost come from just that feeling of him suckling at her alone. She _will_ , if he keeps it up long enough.

She has to give him credit – he’s not shy about this, about her body, all new and changing and not always pretty. He takes it in stride. He seems almost _into_ it.

Frank settles himself between her legs like he could stay there for a century, assuming a familiar position and pressing a scratchy kiss to the inside of her thigh. For a while that’s all he does: peppers kisses there, maddeningly close to the heat of her cunt, but doesn’t move in, and she can barely see him over her mountain of a stomach but she imagines he’s smirking, all self-satisfied and smug.

_Please._ She won’t say it. She’ll die before she begs.

She’s probably going to die if she doesn’t come, soon.

“Hurry up,” is what she growls out, instead, and it’s more breathless than she’d like it to be, partly because of the weight of the baby crushing her lungs, beating her organs into submission. “My lunch break isn’t… isn’t gonna last forever.”

He chuckles, and she can feel the air leave his mouth, blow hot over her cunt. “ _My_ lunch break’s just gettin’ started-”

She’s reaching down, grabbing his head, and jamming it up against her before he can say another word – because no, fuck _no_ , sex now, banter later. If she had the mental capacity for concern right now she’d probably be at least mildly worried about suffocating him with her thighs, but Frank seems more than willing to go out this way, drowning in her. Death by pussy.

She almost snorts. Carve that onto a fucking headstone.

He doesn’t need any encouragement beyond that; as soon as his mouth makes contact with her folds he throws himself into devouring her, body and soul, savoring her taste like some impossibly rare delicacy he’s not sure he’ll ever have again, and it’s not just the feeling – the slide of his slick tongue, the burning heat of his mouth, the suction of his lips on her clit. Fuck, it’s the _sounds_ he makes, not only slurps and hums but desperate, strangled moans, like he can’t get enough, like they’re in some sort of symbiosis and he’s going to die the moment his mouth leaves her. He’s enthusiastic, almost overly so, and when he opens his eyes and peers up at her, finds her looking back, she can feel his lips curl into a smirk against her pussy.

She feels wide open, pried apart, laid out before him, swollen belly and heaving breasts, too vulnerable for comfort, like a tortoise flipped onto its back. She’s slick and shiny with sweat in the pale afternoon light, fingers carding across his buzzed head, trying and failing to find leverage to yank him closer. She’s close, God she’s close, but part of her doesn’t want to come yet, let him know that he has her like this, that he can dismantle her and put her back together with hardly any effort at all – in this way, in others.

She has to shut her brain off before she jumps down that rabbit hole of conflicting emotions.

_It’s just sex. Shut up and take it._

What _she_ needs to do to take her own advice.

“Fuck… God, you taste so good-”

She goes tipping off the cliff’s edge almost the exact second Frank presses two fingers into her, curling them up, applying pressure in tandem with the suction of his lips on her clit – and that’s all it takes. Pleasure blitzkriegs through her, and her mouth drops open, and her moaning is obscene – _God_ , but no one ever told her the hormones would do this, crank her orgasm intensity up about half a dozen notches until every one only makes her crave the next one more, until they damn near destroy her.

The world around her whites out for a split second, and it fades back in just in time for her to see Frank creeping up the bed toward her with a slanted grin, beard soaked by her cunt, lips gleaming, pupils blown wide, cock hard and heavy between his legs. He looks almost euphoric, on some sort of aphrodisiac. Punch-drunk and lovestruck and half-mad.

“How d’you want me?” he asks, cocking his head to one side, licking his lips, and – _fuck_ , that almost makes her fall to pieces all over again.

They have to discuss the logistics of fucking in a way they never used to, before. Frankly, as far as she’s concerned, it requires too much brainpower – at least currently, when she’s blissed out and boneless, not really thinking.

“Don’t care,” she pants, finally, as he lays his lips at the pulse point on her neck. “Just fuck me.”

That’s stupid – giving Frank carte blanche to do whatever he wants. For a second she’s almost certain he’s going to abuse that power, tell her he wants to do something sappy and sentimental and stupid like make love to her while looking her in the eyes – but thankfully he’s smart enough to adhere to the established protocol, here, and so he grins again, slinking down to the end of the bed and taking a seat there, swinging his legs over the end of it, patting his lap.

“Come over here,” he invites, still breathless and red-faced from eating her out. And _that’s_ an offer she can’t refuse.

She sits up and makes her way toward him, and she’s just about to arrange herself onto his lap and straddle him when Frank places his hand on her hip, guiding her around gently so that she’s facing away from him instead, towards the mirror above the dresser. She’s flushed and shaky from her orgasm, and when she notices their reflections she whimpers, still vaguely unnerved by the sight of her own body, never fully able to get comfortable with it.

“I don’t… I don’t wanna watch myself, Frank-”

He urges her down so that she’s grinding against him, chuckling against her shoulder. “Why not? You’re hot as hell like this.”

She chokes out a laugh. “You just like my tits.”

“Can you blame me?”

“No – _oh_ -”

He’s lining himself up and guiding her down onto his cock before she can finish articulating that thought, and the half-hearted protests die on her tongue immediately, turn into whimpers and whines and long, broken keens instead. Her legs are bent into a kneeling position, straddling him backwards, allowing her space to work herself up and down his length and squirm without worrying about her mass of a stomach, and she tries not to stare at the two of them in the mirror but she can’t help it, can’t help but think how absurdly, stupidly _hot_ they look. She never could’ve dreamed he would want her like this, want her the way he does, but Frank is so lost in her body right then, face buried in her hair, arms wound around her, that she doesn’t think he ever wants to leave this bed.

His hands roam her body, come to rest on her swollen stomach almost without thinking, cradling it gently in his palms. Her breath hitches in her throat, and Laurel reaches down without a word, drawing them away, placing them on her breasts instead, her rhythm atop him never faltering. He can’t do that, God – he can’t ever do that.

She wonders if he can smell the lie on her, taste it in her kiss. She wonders if he _knows_ , somehow.

Her voice registers dimly to her own ears, mouth spilling a filthy refrain of: “Oh… oh God, yes, fuck, right there, fuck me… _yes_ -”

This is absurd. It’s all insane. She’s made a mess of her entire life and yet here, here with Frank, everything feels so perversely perfect, her version of some bloody, upside down, inside-out heaven. She sees herself in the mirror – writhing helplessly on his lap, breasts bouncing, a slave to her own desires, huge and pregnant, body some grotesque parody of itself – and she isn’t ashamed. She has no shame left; it’s been stripped from her, like everything has, until she’s some sort of skeleton, no longer able to understand intimacy or vulnerability or any degree of love. She isn’t in control of her own body, any longer, but she can, at least, be in control of this. She just needs to be in control of _something._

Here, with him, she controls _everything._

“God, I love you,” Frank groans, out of the blue. The words feel like a bucket of ice water dumped over her, rippling violently across her skin. “I love you so much.”

He’s a babbler during sex, she reminds herself. He always runs his mouth. He doesn’t mean it. _Can’t_ mean it. He doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into. Loving her was what got Wes killed. Loving her is what’ll get _him_ killed, too, more likely than not. He reaches up, urges her to turn back, kisses her, and she can feel all the tenderness he infuses into that kiss, into his touch, his fingers dancing across her spine, her collarbone.

Sex doesn’t equate to love. He’s blurring the lines, confusing things. He’s a fucking idiot to think he could love her.

“Stop… talking,” she pants, trying and failing to inject venom into the words – because she doesn’t want him to. She wants to listen to him say that over and over. She doesn’t. And she _does_. “I’m… I’m gonna, I-”

Her cunt is clenching around him, drawing him deeper, and he’s driving himself so deep already, meeting her thrust for thrust, that she thinks he’d be content to stay inside her forever – and he’s bare, no condom, she can feel all of him, God, so much it’s almost _too_ much. She’s so sensitive it comes close to overstimulation but stops just short, toeing that maddeningly blissful line, driving her off the deep end, and she pushes back against him with a moan, grinding down harder as she chases her pleasure.

His body is as hard as a rock behind her. She can see sunlight slanting over the contours of his muscles in the mirror, slicing through the blinds, patterning them both. His face is buried in the hollow of her throat from behind, hands anchored on her hips, those violent hands so gentle now. He’s a bad person. So is she. She’d never imagined how freeing that knowledge could be.

They’re a matched set. Perfect for each other.

“Oh… _oh_ , God-”

The real world comes crashing back in rather unceremoniously with the chime of her phone.

It damn near kills her, but she tears herself away immediately with a hiss, stumbling over to the dresser and groping around until she grabs ahold of the thing, reading the message displaying itself there on the lock screen. She’s trembling, thighs sticky, yet somehow also grateful for the jolt back to reality, the escape from that increasingly dangerous headspace. _Saved by the bell._

Frank gives a grunt of displeasure, caught off guard. “What the hell?”

“Bonnie needs me,” she tells him, and Frank chuckles, surprisingly unbothered for someone who’s just been blueballed by a text.

“Tell her to come home; she can talk to you here.”

Laurel gives a half-scoff, half-sigh, and reaches down, grabbing her discarded clothes from the floor. The stench of sweat and their fucking clings to her; _eau de illcit sex_ , as she’s come to think of it. It smells like warm flesh and Frank’s cologne and the wet heat between her thighs and just the teeny-tiniest smattering of shame to bring it all together. She’ll show up to the office reeking of it, and Bonnie won’t know. No one will.

She presses her thighs together and shudders at the thought.

“Can we finally acknowledge that I’m just your gigolo?” Frank teases, resting up against the headboard, looking thoroughly fucked, well-used. He tries to sound nonchalant, but there’s weight behind the question. He wants more. He’s always wanted more.

_Think about how disappointing it is to be treated like a gigolo._

Well. He’s just going to have to learn to deal with disappointment.

“Did I ever give you the impression that you weren’t?” she shoots right back, grinning cheekily, and tugs her dress over her head, shimmying until it falls down around her hips.

“Nice.”

“I’ll text you later,” she says, voice edging on a purr as she goes for the door – and so their ritual ends like it often does, abruptly and with little fanfare; no fade to black, no frozen frame. Laurel leaves him, and she doesn’t bother with any long, lingering parting glances. She didn’t come here for that.

She’s not a good person. Sure as hell not saint material. She’s never going to be canonized.

She might as well get it while she can.


End file.
